The referee's whistle pierced the Nordvic Arena.

  Play resumed.

  The Wolves server tossed the ball. A heavy, driving float serve that hunted the back line.

  Lisa Denire moved, flowing through the floorboard on an imagined skateboard. She slid her knees across the varnish, wedging her platform under the dipping ball.

  Thump.

  The reception was perfect. The ball popped up, hanging in the sweet spot for the offense.

  Willow Vance stepped in. The anxiety that usually plagued burned away by the pace of the match. She felt the rhythm of the rally and made a reckless choice.

  She pushed the ball to the left pin.

  It was a shoot set. Risky. Exceptionally fast. The kind of ball that demanded the hitter to be airborne before the set even left the setter's hands.

  Jules Moreno exploded off the floorboards, catching the ball on the rise.

  Across the net, Naomi Banks was late. The seven-foot giant tried to close the gap, her massive arms reaching out to form her signature absorption block. But the tempo was too erratic. Jules was already swinging. The ball flashed past Naomi's shoulder before the giant could seal the seam.

  Jules hammered it. The ball screamed toward the floor, destined for the paint. A guarantee kill shot.

  A body threw itself across the hardwood.

  Exploding from the back right corner, Scout Cinster threw herself into a flat, chaotic skid. She stretched her reach to its absolute limit, driving her knuckles hard against the slick floorboards.

  Pop.

  Her fist connected with the leather millimeters from the floor.

  The save was chaotic. The ball spun wildly, careening off the court, drifting high and wide toward the sidelines, miles away from the setter's pocket.

  The dig was chaos. The ball spun off her wrist, careening wide, drifting high and crooked toward the sideline, light-years from anywhere useful.

  Ava Sterling chased the errant pass, her sneakers screeching. She arrived under the ball near the scorer's table.

  She clicked her tongue, super annoyed. The spin was garbage and the angle was worse.

  Didn't even other to run a play, she squared her shoulders to the left antenna and heaved the ball into the air just to keep the rally alive.

  A trash set.

  It floated high into the rafters, drifting three feet off the net, spinning awkwardly. A gift to the defense. A ball that gave the blockers all the time in the world to set up.

  Jennifer Annista tracked its descent.

  She recalibrated her entire approach mid-stride, momentum was as strong as a falling boulder yet fluid like spring water. She found the ball's lazy arc and planted beneath it.

  Himeko Nakamura was waiting.

  Faster, her mind yelled.

  The mantra had finally taken hold, Himeko moved the instant Ava's hands touched the ball.

  She reached the pin, planted deep, erupted upward.

  Reaching her apex, Himeko pressed over the tape. Shoulders locked rigid. Fingers fanned wide. A true fortress had been built, occupying the exact cubic feet of air that Jennifer needed.

  Jennifer rose to meet the ball at her apex.

  She saw the brick wall. A flicker in her eyes, just barely, recognizing that the obstruction was total, and that the timing was flawless. Himeko Nakamura had finally caught up. The only way forward is to bulldozing through with pure strength.

  Yet, expectations are best, broken.

  Jennifer broke something fundamental about how a human body is supposed to move.

  Hanging in the dead air at the top of her jump, she initiated a violent torque from somewhere deep in her core. Her torso wrenched left. Her ribcage wound like a wrung-out towel. The right shoulder dropped, dragging her hitting arm down to a nearly horizontal plane. [Author's visualization helper: Basically she twisted her body so hard that it almost felt like she's lying down mid air.]

  As soon as her spine bent backward to its maximum curve, her entire body sprung back, snapped forward with the speed of a 220 pounds bullwhip uncoiling.

  A savage sidearm swing carved the ball at an angle that had no business existing on this three dimensional world. The ball bent through the air, curving hard around the outside edge of Himeko's sealed fortress.

  It hissed past Himeko's elbow.

  Lisa Denire read it. She threw herself into a dive, stretching for the impossible angle.

  THUD.

  Leather struck hardwood inches beyond Lisa's splayed fingers.

  The ball ricocheted high and wild, spinning out into the stands where someone in the third row flinched.

  The whistle shrieked.

  "Point, Nordvic Wolves. 23-12."

  Himeko landed on the balls of her feet, ignoring the bleeding scoreboard.

  Her gaze fixed on Jennifer Annista. Only Jennifer.

  A ball hit past you at that velocity should make you shrink, shoulders curling inward, a subconscious attempt to make oneself a smaller target. Yet Himeko stood taller; her eyes were wide, unblinking, trying to devour the image of the monster across the net.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Fear had evaporated. Awe had followed it out. Even frustration had consumed its own fuel, and what remained was a single word.

  "Faster."

  ...

  Jennifer held Himeko's gaze for a moment. She couldn't quite make out what the girl had mumbled, but it didn't matter. A mountain she could surpass was a mountain she could trample. The whole world had tried to chase her, and without a real challenge, every last one of them was just an ant scrambling up the face of Everest.

  The whistle blew. 23-13.

  Ball was dug.

  Ava Sterling pushed the next ball to the outside. Jennifer approached.

  Himeko's legs fired before her conscious mind registered the play. The signal bypassed the analytical cortex entirely, jumping straight from her optic nerve to her quadriceps.

  She exploded laterally, planted her foot and rose.

  Jennifer met the ball at the apex, arm cocked, reaching for that familiar fraction of a second, the tiny window before the block sealed the edge.

  No window. Himeko was already there, hands pressed over the net, filling the space Jennifer wanted to own.

  Something flickered in Jennifer's eyes. A fraction-wide adjustment. Her wrist snapped violently, dragging the ball into a sharp, ugly cut shot slashed across her own body.

  The ball kissed the net tape, tumbled, and dropped inside the court.

  "Point, Wolves. 24-12."

  Himeko landed. Stared at the ball.

  Closer. Faster.

  "Set point."

  Ava Sterling caught the pass cleanly. Her eyes swept left. The strategy required no elaboration: finish with the strongest weapon.

  She lofted the ball high. A perfect arc. The golden throne for the Queen.

  Jennifer Annista began her run. Floorboards trembled under the approach. She gathered momentum, compressed into raging fury, and launched herself toward the stadium lights.

  Himeko Nakamura launched with her.

  The synchronization this time was absolute. Two bodies rising as mirror images, separated by the width of a net.

  Jennifer reached her peak. She saw the block. Himeko's hands were there, challenging her into a duel directly.

  Nothing new. Jennifer had faced these types of walls thousands of times, they would be foolish enough to think she took any pride as much as she took any risk. Her eyes scanned and found what they always found: the microscopic gap between Himeko's right hand and the antenna.

  Jennifer aimed for it.

  Himeko read the intent in the shoulder rotation.

  In the milliseconds before contact, she shifted her wrists. Her arms stayed locked. Only her palms angled outward, sliding two inches right.

  Jennifer's hand detonated into the ball. The ball got craddled into Himeko's palms.

  Pffft.

  Himeko's hands drank the violence, siphoning every joule from the attack. The ball popped upward, caught in friction, and trickled over Himeko's fingertips like water over a stone.

  It dropped.

  Slowly and gently, like a wedding bouquet masquerading as a volleyball, drifting toward the center of the Divers' court.

  "Chance ball!" Himeko screamed, gravity pulling her back to earth.

  She landed. Turned. Already transitioning, already hunting the counter-attack...

  She froze.

  Behind her: nothing. Empty court.

  Lisa Denire had buried herself in the back corner, chest nearly kissing the floor, bracing for a hundred-mile-per-hour detonation. Jules Moreno was shielding her face near the sideline. Willow Vance had scrambled five meters out of position.

  Statues. Every one of them. Statues waiting for a bomb that never went off.

  They watched, locked in place, as the harmless ball floated down.

  The varnish received it in the dead center of the court.

  Bop.

  One bounce, two, then a lazy roll to a stop amid the confused huddle of blue jerseys.

  TWEEEEEEEEET!

  "Point, Set, Nordvic Wolves! 25-12."

  The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the set and the start of the break.

  Himeko stood at the net. She stared at the ball sitting innocently on the floor. Her teammates blinked, slowly coming out of their defensive paralysis, realizing that there was no steel, only feather.

  Himeko slowly turned back to the net.

  Jennifer Annista was walking away. She had grabbed her towel from a teammate and was heading toward the bench.

  But halfway to the sideline, Jennifer stopped.

  She turned her head over her shoulder. Her dark eyes narrowed, locking onto the retreating Port Osea middle blocker. The boredom was gone from her gaze. In its place was a sharp, calculating glint.

  Interesting.

  She turned away and walked to her bench.